ABOUT THE POEM: “Ronie Dinosaur: Chapter 1 – The Roar” introduces the birth of a persona who refuses to shrink beneath the weight of loneliness, truth, or myth. The chapter explores the idea that a roar is not always an explosion of sound—sometimes it is the quiet refusal to collapse. Ronie Dinosaur is not a creature of extinction but a symbol of resilience, scale, and inner architecture. His roar rises from decades of unshared pain, personal responsibility, and an almost violent honesty toward himself. The poem positions Ronie against cultural reference points—Shiva, Godzilla—not to compete with them, but to measure the furnace of his own existence. The narrative unfolds as a self-made mythology: a human being who claims no divinity yet refuses to feel smaller than the gods he grew up hearing stories about. Each line sharpens the character’s solitude, the comedy of being original in a world that rewards imitation, and the bitter truth that even authenticity can starve without another authentic witness. The chapter confesses a flaw—alcohol, avoidance, self-sabotage—and confronts the humiliation of failing to find even one genuine human connection in a world where children accidentally stumble into it. That failure becomes the pivot that launches the persona toward a fifth option: fame, not as vanity but as survival, as a way to be seen before loneliness eats through the last layer of spirit. This chapter ends with a philosophical question about Shiva’s grief and survival, inviting readers to respond from thought, not scripture, and promising that each chapter will continue this evolving dialogue.It’s my job to roar.
When Ronie Dinosaur roars,
even Godzilla looks like a toy lizard.
Godzilla’s roar is sound ripped from the throat-
loud, radioactive, cinematic.
Ronie’s roar comes from deeper,
from the furnace where decades of unpaid loneliness
have been smelted into something denser than lead.
An ant’s grief can eclipse a god’s
if the ant’s heart is pure.
Purity here is not innocence;
it is the refusal to dilute pain with posture.
Not the drunk poet who performs hangover-brags,
cigarette trembling between fingers,
mistaking self-pity for depth.
Real suffering is quieter.
It is the man who adds extra lashes
to the ones fate already gave him-
out of principle,
out of character-
then stands up anyway
and keeps walking
and refuses to call it tragic.
That is the roar no microphone can carry.
It does not shake cities.
It only makes the silence afterward
feel suddenly, unbearably small.
Some people are born fools.
Some are made fools of.
I chose the role myself.
Why does the caged bird sing?
Why does Ronie Dinosaur roar in this wild alone?
Ask them.
How would I know?
I was only born fifteen minutes ago.
Just get the sarcasm.
Yet here I am,
holding the full weight of this character-
its gravity, its iron structure-
while the only task required of me
is almost insultingly small:
live by the true will of my heart.
What is, is.
What isn’t, isn’t.
I don’t draw maps and then obey them.
I don’t invent a persona
and then rehearse its next line.
The script is already me.
I do not think and then act-
I act, and it turns out
that was the character all along.
That is the difference.
This is simply how I feel.
I grew up with Shiva’s stories; naturally they move through my thoughts.
He was a god; I am a human;
yet my heart insists I am not smaller.
Not above him, not equal to him-just not lesser.
I’m not selling mythology.
I’m not selling ego.
I’m stating the shape of my truth.
The name “Ronie Dinosaur” isn’t about extinction.
It’s about resilience.
Scale.
The grandness of the spirit I know I carry.
A dinosaur is not a fossil; a dinosaur is a force.
Every poem that adds to this persona deserves a chapter number.
A chronicle deserves a spine.
This is one such chapter.
I want to go till wherever I can see.
It is my scope; it doesn’t need imagination.
It lies within the range of practical possibility.
It is not just ambition.
Society prefers glitter over truth.
A fake smile is more convincing than real sorrow.
A shallow copy wins.
The original stands alone.
And the cruel comedy is that the original doesn’t even care-
it simply exists
until existence itself begins to sting.
I am an original.
Only I know my structure.
Only I know my roar.
But knowing yourself is not enough.
An original wants one thing to survive:
another original,
someone real enough to see without being taught.
If I cannot find one,
cannot create one,
cannot teach even a fake to become one,
then loneliness sharpens into something predatory.
So I made a deal with society:
“You give me company;
I’ll give you what you want-money.”
No one wanted me,
so I accepted the transaction.
Now I have a flaw.
I drown myself in alcohol.
My questions become my crimes.
I am no longer a victim of loneliness;
I am an accomplice.
It is a shame, really-
this persona called Ronie Dinosaur,
who roars about character and grit
and the iron laws he lives by,
couldn’t manage to find even one woman
to stand beside him.
Children in this world stumble into love
without even knowing what they’re doing,
and here I am,
carrying a furnace in my chest
yet unable to light even a single shared flame.
If finding, creating, sharing, teaching, or buying don’t work-
what is the fifth way?
Get famous.
Not for vanity.
Not for applause.
But because humans are finite,
loneliness has teeth,
and even truth-pure, sharp, undiluted-
needs a witness.
That which is directly perceived needs no proof,
but truth still needs someone alive enough to hear the roar.
And that is why Shiva didn’t die.
That is why I didn’t die.
That is why Ronie Dinosaur roars.
The universe is watching what we do
when dying would be easier,
but living is the assignment.
_____________________________________________________
Just an exercise for the people who want to answer it.
Write your answer in the comments.
Now, those who think they are philosophers-
tell me why he didn’t die with Sati,
if he was so sad.
Don’t quote a book.
Tell me what you think.
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